A long time ago I released a short story on drivethrufiction called “The Rabathen’s Coin – An Arame Tale” that was meant to be the start of a series staring a mysterious thief named Arame. Well, five years later and I have sold maybe six copies. With that in mind I figured I might as well break it up into two or three parts and post in on the blog.
Thoughts are welcome as I am always interested in what others think of my original works.
the harbor in a visible mist that hung over the free trade city of Wickend adding to the already strong reek of human filth and cheap ale. The setting sun, unable to pierce the vile mist, washed over the crumbling buildings that lined the twisting streets of the Old District. From open doors and windows came the sounds of life, true life, of men laughing and boasting, of women flirting and dealing in their trades. To an outsider, the Old District appeared to be chaos and madness, to the denizens of the place it was another night.
body was hidden by a long woolen cloak edged in golden design it was obvious by his long, hawkish
nose and his golden skin that he was a Robathen; a race of priests and scholars. He was far from the
villas and mansions of the Walled Mount, far from guards paid to care and streets of well-maintained cobblestone. With the harried pace of a frightened rat, the Robathen moved through the twilight darkened streets of the Old District. His watery eyes wide in fear and darted around at every sound as clutched and fidgeted with the two ornate daggers sheathed under his cloak. He was scared but, like all men of the Walled Mount, he was arrogant and believed that his power and money would protect him against the trails of the Old District.
white and hot with pain as the decorated hilts bit and tore his soft palms, and attempted to move past the large man. The Numbarsmiled and pounced on the Dalarcites, the Numbar’s bullish build
hiding a catlike grace and speed. Large hands groped for the Robathen’s dark woolen cloak, found
easy purchase in the billowing cloth and threw the Robathen roughly against a wall. A startled
squeal escaped the Robathenand from the other side of the wall, he could the rough merry-making of the sailors and vagabonds of the Old District. He was going to die, Dalacrites thought. And as life flickered out of him he would hear the mocking laughter of the Old District.
job a well paying one.” Tears streaked down his hot cheeks as he pleaded with the Numbar. “I
swear by the golden hand of Suzil that I do not lie! I have … I am looking for a thief!”
visibly as the Numbarleaned closer to him and whispered. “Tell me softman in your pretty little
cloak, why I should lower myself to working for a dickless Robathen like yourself?” The Numbar’s
voice, as heavily accented as it was, oozed with malice and hatred. The wayward Robathen trembled and lipped silent prayers to his far off gods and prepared to meet his ancestors in the summer fields of the afterlife. “Especially,” continued the Numbar, “when what your cloak alone will buy me ale and women for a week.” The stench of the Numbar’s breath grew and Delarcites felt himself grow dizzy from the stench. The tight grip that kept him pinned suddenly became slack and weak and after a moment the Robathenheard his assailant fall heavily to the ground.
traders, artists, philosophers, and the ideas of kingless lands and freedom; the building that would
become known in later, darker, times as The Broken Donkey, was the office of the largest import
merchant in the city. Now, though, generations after the building was first erected it stood like a
badly aged old man. The walls were cracked, patched over countless times with everything from
wood to shit; the roof was now nothing more than mouse-ridden and mold encrusted hay that let
more of the elements in then it kept at bay. Tables of shoddily nailed driftwood littered the main
room. Light, what little there was, came from a single chandelier made of ship rigging and an old
wagon wheel, hung low over the tables, swaying in the feted breeze that came through windows that were little more than holes in the tavern’s walls. The chandelier’s light created deep, shadows, that gave the illusion that ghosts and wraiths drank and fought alongside thief and vagabond.
often only seen in the great cats of the north, and like the cats of those cold mountains, they hunted their prey with a dangerous beauty that would put even the most careful man on edge. Men from all the nations of the known world occupied the room, laughing, drinking, boasting of great deeds, of past wars, and of the mind numbing pleasures that they could offer to the huntresses of the tavern.
stayed close to the girl until this point, came to a stop his eyes growing wide at the scene before him. He lowered his hand to his dagger, afraid that the girl had tricked him. The girl, however, did not seem to notice the Robathenas she twisted and dodged her way to a dark corner of the bar.
moving towards him fast. Pain flared from his face as a many ringed fist slammed against his cheek,
a moment later another fist drove him from his feet as it impacted with his soft belly.
nd laughter that assaulted him from the gathered crowd.
realize that the beating had stopped, that the cheers and laughter from the gathered mass of thieves and vagabonds had ceased. He opened his swollen eyes, whimpering a little as salty blood dripped into them and burned. The crowd in front of him was parting, allowing the Quetaren girl to move past them.
the Quetarens. “Are all men of Numbar as addle brained as you?”
her dagger against the throat of one of the men holding him. “Any person with sight can see,” the
Quetaren continued, “that it was yon whore, and not this man, who was freeing you of your coin.”
She laughed, a sound born of crystals and light. “I am sure if every man, and woman, whom the girl
flirted with tonight checked themselves they’d notice that they too were lighter than when they
entered.”
years of working their dark trades, followed the Quetaren’s advice. The silence created by the small
girl’s appearance vanished, replaced by the gasps and curses of the collected tavern patrons.
Attention turned away from the soft Robathen to the young whore who had robbed them. The small Quetaren girl lifted the Dalarcites‘ limply hanging arm, an arm that felt numb and heavy to its owner, and led him to the dark corner of the tavern.
me in a rigged game of chance.” He started his voice growing hard. “It was an ancient coin of black
metal, like nothing seen the Western Kingdoms, and nearly cold to the touch. The coin had brought
luck to my family for ages, and now …” he looked down, his face darkening in shame. “I have lost
three ships full of cargo to storms since the coin was taken, and those that do make it to harbor …” he trailed off lost in violent memories of his recent black luck. After a long moment, he spoke again, his voice far more steady than even he would have given himself credit. “I can pay enough gold so that whoever this thief may be he can have his own villa behind the walls of the Mount.”
“What need do I, one who comes and goes from the Mount as she pleases, in that much coin? In the
kind of imprisonment?” She stood, and despite her diminutive height, she appeared larger than
before, something more akin to the stalkers of the jungles then to the desert rats her mysterious people were commonly compared to. “My price,” she spoke at length, “Will be generous, but not as steep as some here would charge you.”
“How will I know you have done it?” He asked suddenly. “How can I be sure you won’t just promise me and leave?”
legendary home. “Remember me Robathen. Remember me and know that Arame of Quetar always
keeps her word.” She moved away with a silken fluidity. “And you will know the deed is done
when I stand next to your bed, the coin in my hand.”
